Chapter 3

3

That evening, while I was cooking dinner, I heard footsteps approaching from the front door.

Long strands of hair brushed against my shoulder as two arms wrapped around me from behind, trying to make up for standing me up at noon.

Farrah rarely showed affection like this.

The few times she did act cuddly, it was always when I was cooking or working―the absolute worst times for distractions.

Farrah didn’t understand that.

Or maybe she understood completely and just didn’t care that it added to my burden, nor did she care about the burns and scars I took on my arms to shield her from popping grease.

This time was no different.

Yet when hot oil splattered out of the pan again, I instinctively stepped aside.

The sizzling oil landed directly on her skin, and we both froze for a split second.

The next moment, a piercing shriek echoed through the kitchen. Farrah clutched her scalded arm and bolted out in a rage.

A card slipped out of her coat pocket and fluttered onto the floor.

It was written in elegant calligraphy.

Landon: “Babe, all these years, I’ve never been able to forget you.”

Landon: “No, it’s worse than that. Every time I think about another man holding you in his arms, kissing your skin, my heart aches with agony.”

I flipped the card over; it was filled with dense cursive notes.

At the bottom, there was a familiar, delicate line of handwriting:

“Me too.”

Me too.

What did she mean by that?

Was she saying she couldn’t forget her first love either?

Or was she saying that whenever she thought of me holding her and kissing her, she felt sick to her stomach?

I didn’t even care to dwell on it.

Those sickeningly sweet words merely made my eyes hurt.

I pinched the card and tossed it away.

It landed neatly into the trash bin by the kitchen door.

Years ago, I used to secretly eat my heart out because of that first love lingering in her soul.

I would argue, plead, and point to the scars on my face, begging her to stop chasing a ghost from the past and look at the man right beside her.

The harder I tried, the worse things became.

She claimed I was paranoid and controlling, demanding to know why an ugly freak like me felt entitled to ask so much of her.

What about her?

As the woman who was supposed to marry me soon, did she not possess even an ounce of shame?

For a while, I stood there, completely numb to the emotions.

Quick footsteps clicked toward me; Farrah had realized the card was missing from her pocket.

After searching the living room and bedroom, she walked into the kitchen.

Seeing the card resting inside the trash can, her pristine composure cracked.

“Did you throw this away?”

I scooped rice into my own bowl. “Did you have fun at your reunion?”

Farrah waited for me to serve her dinner, but when I didn’t, she bit her lip. “Stop being so jealous of Landon all the time.”

“Things between him and me ended years ago.”

Her words sounded entirely meaningless to me. I finished my meal, walked out the front door, and took a stroll around the block.

I completely ignored her as she rushed after me, weaving a sweet web of lies to placate me.

Eventually, after a staged sob on her part, her annoying chatter finally stopped.

I didn’t pause my stride.

I knew I could no longer feel jealous for her sake.

Nor would my heart ever soften again for her fake tears.

Farrah had no heart.

She enjoyed watching me beg and apologize like an animal performing tricks in a circus.

Even when looking at my scarred face―ruined years ago when I pushed her out of the way of falling debris―she felt nothing but disgust.

I had loved deeply and been wounded ruthlessly, getting nothing in return until my soul turned to dust.

In that case, cutting ties clean was the only way forward.

When I returned from my walk, a bottle of men’s facial recovery cream was sitting on my desk.

“Jonas, why don’t you try applying this?”

I glanced at the warning label on the back and read the bold text with cold sarcasm: “Not suitable for open or scarred wounds; may cause secondary skin irritation. Farrah, I don’t think this cream was originally meant for me.”

I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door.

Farrah grabbed my wrist.

“You’re misunderstanding! Landon just told me this brand was really good for skincare―”

I pried her fingers off. “Oh? So you rushed to buy it for Landon.”

“Then you gave him that designer coat first and saved this cream for later.”

“When you realized I was upset, you decided to use it on me instead, hoping to ruin my face even further?”

“Jonas! How could you think of me like that!” Farrah’s tears looked genuine this time.

“Then why don’t you make up a better story right now?” I looked down at her with infinite patience.

Her lips trembled.

Standing there with tears spilling down her cheeks, she looked as if I were the villain cruelly mistreating her.